I was ready to have my son after what felt like a long, hard, and painful pregnancy.

I was ready to have my son when he was due.

I was ready to have my son when he was ten days overdue.

And then everything changed.

I was ready to give up my son when he had his first non-stop cry fit at the hospital while I was still recovering from an emergency C-section and couldn’t calm him down.

I was ready to give up my son when I first breastfed him and felt discomfort and pain.

I was ready to give up my son when I first brought him home.

I was ready to give up my son every day for the first six-weeks of his life.

My son is two-and-a-half.
He can be the light of my day or the darkness.
He can bring me overwhelming amounts of joy or sadness.
He can make life worth living or he can make me want life to end.
He’s the reason for my happy moments and my depressive and anxious ones.
He can be the reason I laugh or the reason I cry.

As my child gets older, I wonder if these feelings will eventually dissipate. I try to remain optimistic that they will. I am unable to distinguish the negative feelings from my history of depression and my postpartum depression. I move through each day hoping for the best and knowing that I love my son with everything I have despite my internal feelings. My negative thoughts aren’t his fault, but the fault of my illness. I want to shelter him from the truth yet I can’t wait to explain to him why mommy cries for what appears to be no reason. My internal conflicts are exhausting but at the end of the day, I try to remember that I have a healthy and happy boy and while I go through emotional rollercoasters, I am blessed that he chose me as his mother.